


Little Acts of Rebellion

by Scruggzi



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Cupboard Sex, F/M, Smut, complaining about the aristocracy, pff, snacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi
Summary: Bored and irritated by the guests at Margaret Fisher's party, Phryne and Jack sneak off to make their own entertainment.





	Little Acts of Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> During the rewatch of Murder a la Mode the other week someone requested some cupboard phrack. I had already promised 'wall to wall biscuits and snogging' after I wrote Without Regret which was a tad on the angsty side. Well this has no biscuits but there are profiteroles and blow jobs so I feel it's well within the spirit of the commitment!
> 
> Also this is my PFF debut! All power to the smut!

The party had been Margaret Fisher’s idea, and from her perspective, perhaps, it had been a good one. Ever the outsider from the colonies, despite her years in England, she needed to make an effort to maintain her social standing. Not that she had much sympathy from her daughter, who had done nothing but sniff at the guest list since she had announced the plan.

For Jack, the evening had been a nightmare. He was stuck in a stuffy parlour, crowded with the kind of people who saw a policeman as a kind of servant, and themselves as well above the law. To add insult to injury, Phryne had now disappeared. Her conversation had been the only redeeming feature of the whole affair as far as he was concerned. Well, that and her outfit, which was a beaded extravaganza in ocean blue silk, the deep V at the back exposing her skin down to the waist. It had made it exceedingly difficult to keep his hands to himself, which was almost certainly her intention in wearing it.

Jack muttered an excuse to the baronet - or possibly he was an earl - who had been ranting about the need for strong military leadership in Europe to countermand the threat posed by communist Russia. Having been talked at by the man for ten solid minutes, Jack was feeling a far greater sense of solidarity with Phryne’s red ragger cabbies than he had ever done before.

Deciding that perhaps Miss Fisher had snuck back to their room, and feeling a little hurt that she had abandoned him to such a horrible fate, Jack slipped out into the hall in search of her. Not wanting to be accosted by anymore tiresome aristocrats, he made for the back stairs from the kitchens rather than the front hall. As he passed the small cupboard under the stairs where the housekeeper kept the cleaning supplies, Phryne darted swiftly out as if she had been waiting for him and pulled him inside by the arm. The space was dimly lit by a small oil lantern, cramped, but not so cramped that he couldn’t sit down, there were dust sheets stacked up under the slope of the ceiling, which Phryne had spread out like a makeshift mattress, it was surprisingly comfortable.

“Wherever have you been, Jack? I’ve been waiting ages.”

“Being lectured on the dangers of communism, by a man who’s never done a day’s work in his life.” He replied. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

“Preventing a murder.” She replied with an ominous mou that caught his attention at once.

“Oh? Who’s our suspect?”

“Me. If I have to remain in the presence of Charlie Widdecombe for a minute longer, then believe me, no-one will ever find the body.”

“Oh?” Jack’s eyes crinkled slightly in relief, with Phryne an _actual_ murder was always a very real possibility.

“He’s a fascist.” She explained succinctly. “Odious man. I can’t stand him.”

“So, you’re hiding in a cupboard? That’s not like you.”

“You didn’t hear him, Jack. It was either remove myself from his presence or bury him under that hideous topiary mother’s so fond of. Besides,” her voice took on an altogether more suggestive tone and Jack could see her peering up at him through her lashes, her eyes glittering wickedly in the lamplight, “I was hoping you would seek me out sooner or later, I’m sure that between us we can think of some way to pass the time.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. Normally he would not have wanted to let her win so easily, the likelihood of discovery was high and the space cramped and hardly romantic, but after an evening amongst the English upper classes, Jack Robinson was feeling an uncharacteristic desire to fuck in the halls of the mighty. As that scenario would probably test even Phrnye’s limits when it came to ignoring the dictates of social propriety, the hall cupboard would have to do.

Phryne could sense the air of rebellion about him and grinned, delighted, her Inspector was so much _fun_ when he misbehaved! He was also a difficult man to sway and he usually made her work for his cooperation, therefore, she had come prepared.

“I liberated this,” she pulled an almost full bottle of champagne from an empty ash bucket just behind her, “for the cause.”

Jack half expected her to produce champagne flutes as well, but to his surprise, Phryne simply lifted the bottle to her lips and took a generous swig. A tiny splash of wine slid out of the corner of her mouth and dripped down her front, smattering across her chest and leaving a small stain on the relatively conservative neckline at the front of her evening gown. His smile widened as he took the bottle from her, the light touch of fingers and a meeting of eyes cementing his part in any and all upcoming revolutionary activities. He held it up to the light from the lamp.

“Hmm, looks like we are going to have to ration this contraband, Miss Fisher.” His gaze travelled meaningfully to the splash of champagne across her chest. “We can’t afford to let any go to waste.”

Phryne had shifted her weight back against the dust sheets, drawing him in with the challenge in her eyes and the promise in her red painted lips as she licked the remnants of the wine from them with a slow, deliberate flick of her tongue. Jack set the bottle down carefully and edged his way towards her through the dim space, one hand sliding up her calf as he came to rest just above her, their noses almost touching.

“Oh, I quite agree, Jack. Perhaps you could help me…dispose of the evidence?”

She glanced down once again towards the damp splash now almost soaked into her skin. Jack met her mischievous smirk with devilish eyes and hungry kisses beginning at her neck and traveling lower; savouring the familiar flavour of her skin and the sharp bite of the champagne as his tongue flicked out to taste her.

Phryne gasped, shivering as the slow flick of Jack’s tongue caused a ripple of gooseflesh to break out over her skin, his hands still toying with the smooth silk of her stockings. She stroked lazy fingers through his hair, liberating his curls from the oppressive restriction of pomade. It wasn’t that the man didn’t look perfectly divine in evening dress, lord knows he did, but after a night amongst the some of worst chinless warriors the English upper crust could produce, Phryne too was feeling an all too familiar urge towards rebellion. It was delightful to have such a willing co-conspirator.

When he had had his fill, and carefully removed all errant traces of champagne to their mutual satisfaction, Jack shifted his weight higher, tilting his head to press a deep, slow, all consuming, kiss to Phryne’s lips, his tongue darting into her mouth, tasting traces of something sweet under the effervescent tang of the wine. Putting his weight on one arm he freed the other, letting him trail the tips of his fingers along Phryne’s hip and up across her chest, then, drawing back, he reached behind her to retrieve the rest of the bounty she had stashed away.

“Aha! I knew it. Profiteroles!”

“Let them eat cake,” she gestured with an ironic smile towards the door, where the sounds of the party could still be heard.

He twitched a smile at her and popped one into his mouth, the rich whipped cream bursting out of the light choux pastry and mingling with the sweet taste of the chocolate sauce as he bit down on it. He let out a little hum of enthusiasm which made Phryne chuckle, reaching for his hand she drew his finger to her mouth, swirling her tongue around it to clean off any remnants of chocolate sauce, and causing a much deeper hum to escape his lips; his eyes never left her face as she wrapped her lips around each of his long fingers in turn, his mouth still curled in the faintest approximation of a smile. With his other hand he reached behind him, locating their bottle of illicit champagne and took a swig, licking the traces off his lips, very aware as he did so that Phryne was eyeing him like a cat about to pounce. Well, if she insisted, he was sure he could find it in himself to accommodate her.

“You never answered my question, Miss Fisher.”

“Which was?”

“Why are we sitting in the hall cupboard instead of enjoying the comforts of your bedroom?”

“Oh, Jack,” she sounded a little exasperated, really, the man could be such a novice at times when it came to breaking the rules, still, she had to admit he was a fast learner, “that’s the first place mother will look when we’re missed, followed by every spare room in the house. Here,” she leant forward taking the champagne bottle from him and glugging the contents with all the refinement of a dock worker, “we can be assured of no interruptions.”

Phryne put the bottle back in the ash bucket, hiccupped, put a hand over her mouth and giggled. She looked so adorable; her lipstick smudged by their kisses, her elegant gown and the costly bottle of champagne at total odds with their surroundings and that delightful light of mischief in her eyes. Jack felt as if he was overflowing with love for this amazing, ridiculous woman who had brought so much joy into his life. It must have shown on his face, because her expression softened as she leaned up to kiss him, her hands sliding beneath his dinner jacket to stroke the muscles of his chest through the fabric of his dress shirt.

Phryne wondered if Jack knew what that look did to her, his tender adoration burnt through every layer of elegance and artifice in which she clothed herself and warmed her from the inside, like the gentle but inexorable heat of summer sunshine. It gripped her with the desire to love him, to pour all of herself into him until that heat consumed them both and left them panting and naked in each other’s arms. Not quite the location for that feat as taking their clothes off might be difficult in the confined space, but there were other possibilities. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders, pulling his bowtie free and deftly undid the top buttons of his dress shirt with her teeth. His expression darkened and his hands gripped her hips a little more roughly, crushing the silk beneath his fingers, spurring her on. Phryne trailed her kisses lower, nibbling at Jack’s neck before moving up to take the lobe of his ear between her teeth, he let out a gasp, pulling her towards him, his hands exploring the bare skin of her back, his fingers sliding down her spine and slipping beneath the rough beaded edges of the gown, finding satin and lace and the secret expanses of smooth skin he was beginning to know so well. Phryne hummed her approval, reaching up for a brief, fierce kiss before pulling back to manoeuvre him around until he was lying on the pile of dust sheets and she was sitting back on her heels between his legs.

Leaning forward she grabbed another creamy profiterole from the stash behind him, biting it in half and letting the cream and chocolate stain her lips and fingers before bending down to feed the other half to Jack. He licked the lingering sweetness from her fingers and her mouth, cupping his hand to the back of her head to pull her close, pressing her warm body to his until it eclipsed everything else from the dreary party to the dusty, cramped little space with their stash of stolen bounty and every part of him was saturated with a heady mix of joy, and the anticipation of what was to come.

He was half hard already, her greedy, demanding kisses and the impatience that had her ripping the buttons from his shirt and waistcoat, undid him like no other woman ever had. Finally, Phryne found his skin under the suffocating layers of formality her mother’s soiree had demanded of him. She was delighted to discover he had left off his undershirt, that seemed fortuitous, but, then again, Jack was a man who believed in planning ahead. Had he predicted she would drag him off to debauch him somewhere before the night was over? She glanced up, raising an eyebrow at this stealthy show of impropriety. The cocky slant of his head and satisfied smile told her she was right, oh he _was_ learning quickly, how delightful, there was hope for the man yet.

Having no room to undress him properly, Phryne contented herself with caressing his chest with her hands and lips, feeling him harden further against her thigh as she scraped her teeth lightly over his nipples. Jack was pinned beneath her, a position which – somewhat to his own surprise - he rather enjoyed, it was a powerful feeling to be so desired by someone. He let out a low moan as her lips trailed lower down his chest, one hand moving down to grip his erection through the fine fabric of his trousers. It felt debauched and exciting to be doing this here, hidden away so close to the braying, self-satisfied hubbub of the idle rich. In some strange way, their little conspiracy almost felt like vengeance against those men who had looked down their noses at him, but who would love to be here in his well-worn but still serviceable dress shoes.

Phryne dispensed swiftly with Jack’s suspenders and moved down to the fastening of his trousers, overwhelmed with the desire to take his delicious cock in her mouth, to love every glorious inch of him with her lips and tongue until he was shaking, delirious and begging her to fuck him into oblivion. Shifting slightly backwards Phryne pulled Jack’s trousers down but did not remove them, the space was too small to fill it up with his entire ensemble. His erection was straining against the fabric of his underwear, his hand in her hair as he encouraged her lower. She gave an involuntary lick of her lips as she stroked him through the cloth, making him bite his lower lip in an effort not to make a sound.

Pulling off his final layer, Phryne took a moment to admire him, thick and gorgeous, aching for the touch of her hands and the press of her lips and tongue. Ever happy to oblige - at least, as long as it served her purposes - she bent her head, keeping her eyes on his as she licked a slow stripe from base to tip, swirling her tongue around his head before taking him in her mouth as deep as she could. She loved to watch his face just before she did this, the mingled expression of mischief and anticipation that spread from his eyes outwards was a joy to behold.

Jack was floating somewhere far away from the dank little cupboard, lost in an ecstasy of decadence. His fingers strayed from Phryne’s hair, down to the smooth expanse of her shoulders, stroking the back of her neck in wordless thanks as he sank back into the grubby dust sheets which were quietly wrecking the back of his waistcoat and the exposed edges of his formerly pristine dress shirt. He felt loved and wanted and free in a way that was almost alien to him; he shut his eyes, concentrating on the movement of Phryne’s lips, her slow, wet kisses and the soft strokes of her tongue. She made him feel young again, transporting him back to a mildly misspent youth, when he had carelessly broken a handful of hearts (his own included) and indulged in a good deal more than kisses before his wedding night. It was not that he regretted the serious and careful man he had become, he was proud of who he was, but there was a temptation at times, to enjoy a little moment of well-earned indiscretion. Under Phryne’s expert tutelage, those moments were getting more frequent and more reckless by the day, and right now he couldn’t bring himself to regret a single one.

Phryne hummed in pleasure as she felt Jack’s arousal building further, the muscles of his thighs tensing against her forearm as she shifted her weight, moving faster, fisting the base of Jack’s cock as she sucked at the tip. His breathing was rough and unsteady, barely resisting the urge to growl dirty curses as reward for her efforts; only the risk of discovery holding him back. When she took him to the back of her throat, letting her fingers brush ever so lightly against the tender skin of his balls, he broke, his staccato “fuu-uck!” was a deep base rumble that sent tantalising shivers over the bare skin of her back.

Satisfied with her efforts, she drew off him slowly, letting her tongue bid a fond farewell to the thick vein running up the side of his cock and lapping eagerly at the pre-cum seeping from the tip. Before Jack could protest at the loss of contact she was on top of him, sliding over his body in a single fluid movement until her lips were almost touching his. He met them with a commanding force that left her breathless, determined as he was to pay her back with pleasure for her tempting, teasing ways.

There was something almost righteous in the crushing of costly silk beneath his hands, hard and needy against her breasts, and the slide of his wet cock marking the deep blue of her skirt with traces of his arousal. It occurred to Phryne that in the sea of sanctimonious mediocrity that was most of London’s high society, loving a good man, who had none of the superficial trappings of connections or title that preoccupied such people, was in itself a rebellious act. As with all such acts she intended to enjoy the experience repeatedly and with considerable enthusiasm; a plan which Jack wholeheartedly endorsed.

Sliding back onto her knees in an attempt to straddle him caused the folds of Phryne’s skirt to tangle, trapping her legs, there was a faint _scriiitch_ and a tear appeared at the bottom of her gown. Meeting her eyes in dark, silent question, Jack gripped the fabric, one hand on either side of the split. She nodded, elated by his daring, almost frantic with her need to remove the barriers between them. 

“You’re sure?” he might have been teasing, but his jaw was clenched and there was no a hint of a smile, he badly wanted to commit this small act of sabotage and she was willing, more than willing to let him do it.

“Rip it to pieces.” Her voice was rough, excited but not desperate, her eyes flicking from his face to his hands still gripping the silk. With this performative destruction, she felt they were somehow partners in crime, a new and interesting perspective for them and one with considerable potential.

The muscles in Jack’s arm tensed in readiness, his knuckles whitening as with determined force he tore the silk in two, ripping it up to her crotch, revealing the creamy lace of her garter belt and – as he had suspected - a notable absence of knickers. That did make him smile, a tiny flicker of the jaw heightening the dark promise in his eyes. He licked his lips, watching her as she straddled him, his fingers moving from the tattered edges of the formerly fine silk to the wet heat between her thighs.

Jack stroked her slowly, one finger circling her clitoris, filling her with a warm glowing fire that spread inexorably through her like a rising tide. He moved to her entrance, teasing it with his index finger before pushing inside; one finger, then two, sliding deep, seeking out the secret places that made her moan and whimper, heedless of the risk of discovery. Seeing her like this, magnificent and utterly alive, immersed in pleasure of his creation, he almost wanted to be caught, although it would mortify him to his soul if it actually happened. There was a tiny part of him that wanted _them_ to see this; those pompous, ignorant men who lusted after her without ever knowing or appreciating her depth or her brilliance. A part that wanted them to catch a glimpse of this heady, all-consuming love and know their petty little hearts could never even come close to anything so real or so profound.

Phryne was flushed, her breathing laboured with the effort of keeping quiet, a feat which she was almost managing. She leaned back on her arms, her legs still astride his waist, the pressure of his erection against the tense muscles of her arse; she began to pulse her hips against Jacks thrusting fingers, letting him slide in and out, his thumb taping lightly against her clit as he buried his fingers as deep as they would go inside her. She came with a muffled wail through clenched lips, her eyes tight shut, her whole body shaking in molten ecstasy.

Jack withdrew his fingers and drew her gently forward so she was slumped on top of him, grinning and humming out the melodic little laugh she sometimes made after a climax. There was a sweetness in her dreamy, satisfied smile that he found perfectly adorable, although he had a decent enough sense of self-preservation to avoid telling her that; at least until she gave him a good enough reason to tease her with it. He smoothed his hands over her hips, still partially covered by the ruined skirt, his damp fingers leaving pale traces, like little contrails against the blue of the silk.

Once her eyes had refocused, Phryne tilted her head up, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw, ending in a delicate scrape of teeth.

“Hmm, this evening has most certainly started to improve, Inspector.”

She met his eyes with an expression that was clear and steady and intense, she had regained control and now she was going to make sure he lost his. He returned her gaze with a brazen smirk and a set jaw, welcoming the delicious oblivion promised in her wicked, unrelenting smile. That set jaw was an invitation and a challenge; the victory when it came would be mutual, and it would be glorious.

“I’d say it has potential, Miss Fisher.” His voice a low rumble of distant thunder, carrying the promise of a storm.

His hands stroked along her hips under the tattered skirt and encouraged her lower, the slick heat of her sex teasing his cock with an ecstatic friction that shot sparks to the end of his every nerve. He thrust gently and with delicate precision against her still sensitive clitoris, relishing in her obvious enthusiasm, before angling himself at her entrance and thrusting inside her with a force that left them both breathless. Tilting her hips and placing her weight on her knees, Phryne leaned back, encouraging him on as he drove into her from below. The soft peaks of her nipples were begging for the attention of his mouth as her breasts bounced in rhythm with their hips, and he sat up to capture one between his lips, feeling it harden as he teased it between tongue and teeth.

Phryne slipped her hand behind Jack’s back, locating the abandoned bottle of champagne, and without breaking rhythm, took a long draft before holding the bottle to his lips. The pace of their bodies and the speed of their movements caused the wine to splash in a chaos of decadence down his chest, soaking into his clothes and wetting his skin. They both laughed, there was a little something in this night that made them want to take the solid, respectable world with all its etiquette and hypocrisy and burn it to the ground; there was so much delight to be found in a little harmless destruction. Phryne put the bottle down and bent her head forward to lap and kiss and bite at Jack’s skin, where overpriced alcohol mingled with honest sweat. Leaning forward, Phryne detached his hands from her hips and forced them over his head, holding them there, their fingers locked, their lips meeting then dropping erratically against jaw and neck whilst she fucked him and loved him and claimed him as her own. It was a level of trust and devotion neither of them had known with another, and which neither of them felt able to properly express outside of this wild conflagration of heart and flesh and soul.

Phryne’s orgasm burnt through her veins, her scream muffled as she buried her face in Jack’s neck, her teeth leaving red welts on his skin. The friction of pleasure-pain made him shudder against her as he lost himself entirely; his conscious mind evacuating his body to make room for unadulterated bliss as he spent himself, deep within her, and they sank together into a warm sated haze of contentment, neither of them worried about who might have overheard them.

They held each other close, breaths calming, bodies cooling, minds returning to Earth. This position, with Phryne slumped on top of Jack, her slight weight a warm and welcome one across his chest, allowed them to stay joined, still connected skin to skin as he softened and slipped from her. Without thinking Phryne reached down and attempted to clean them ineffectually with the ruined remains of her skirt. Jack stopped her hands and reaching behind him, pulled out a dust sheet from the back of the stack and wrapped them in it. Phryne snuggled into him, murmuring her approval, even as it became obvious that this dust sheet had at some point been laid down whilst a chimney had been swept. The pair of them reclined, sticky and covered in smuts, until they had finished off the remainder of the champagne and profiteroles.

Realising that their choice was to make a break for it or stay in the cupboard until the household went to sleep, they dashed up the back stairs to bathe and change, their eveningwear an utter and glorious shambles. When they returned to the party after a thoroughly suspicious absence of several hours, Jack was comfortably filling out a blue wool suit and tie, leaning on the mantle at utter ease as if daring anyone to object. Phryne stood by his side, in a sheer blouse, and a well-cut pair of trousers that emphatically declared her independence and her allegiance in the face of judgement from her so-called peers. The pair sipped whiskey together, having each had their fill of champagne for the evening, and presented an articulate and united front when Charlie Widdicombe elected to subject them to a renewed barrage of his worthless political opinions.

When Margaret Fisher, although she knew she would probably regret the question, decided to inquire about their change of clothing, Phryne responded with a casual laugh.

“Nothing dramatic mother; merely a small incident with an over pressurised bottle of champagne. Although I’m afraid that gown may never be the same again.” Her eyes flickered to Jack’s and left no-one within visual range in any doubt as to the veracity of that statement, or the next.

“We had already been talking on the veranda for over an hour so we just changed back into our day things before we were missed. It seemed the simplest option.”

Margaret Fisher narrowed her eyes, you do not stay married to Henry Fisher for over 30 years without learning to smell a barefaced lie when presented with one, not unless you are a fool, which Margaret Fisher was not. Whilst propriety prevented her from challenging her daughter in front of the important guests she had invited, her expression made it quite clear that Phryne was fooling no-one.

Phryne and Jack both met her gaze, secure in the low opinions they had formed of Margaret’s important guests, and unapologetic in the face of her knowing glower. After all, given who she’d married, Margaret Fisher had precious few grounds for criticism when it came to little acts of rebellion.                                   

 


End file.
